


Romantic Marvel One-Shots

by BigBandBombshell



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cute, Fluff, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance, Sweet, TW: Blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigBandBombshell/pseuds/BigBandBombshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you need a little sweetness with one of your favorite Marvel characters, take a look through the chapters of this one-shot series.  These one-shots are as body-type, race, and gender-neutral as I could make them, so hopefully any reader can put themselves in the story. If your favorite character isn't in the series yet, leave a comment and I will work on getting them up ASAP!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve Rogers/Captain America

You curl against the back of the couch and pull the blanket tighter around you. The remnants of your nightmare still flash behind your eyes and you shake your head to try and clear them away. A faint stirring comes from down the hall, followed by the soft sound of Steve's approach a moment later.

“Another nightmare?” He sits on the arm of the couch behind you and strokes a hand over your hair. You nod and lean back against him.

“I need to go talk to Wanda,” you say quietly. “This is the fifth time this week.”

“We'll go see her in the morning,” he says. “In the meantime, you should come back to bed.”

“Why?” You're too tired to hide the bitterness in your voice. “I'll just toss and turn and keep you awake. And I don't want you to get called on a mission after sleeping like shit because of me.”

“I'll manage.” His smile comes through in his words, but it doesn't do anything to lighten your mood.

The two of you sit in silence for a few moments more and watch the night life bustle by beyond the tower's windows.

“Are you sure I can't convince you to come back to bed?” He finally asks softly. You shake your head and sigh.

“Go get some sleep, Steve. I'm going to stay up until Wanda texts me back and says she can take a look.” Steve's warmth remains at your back for a moment but his hand pauses on your shoulder.

“If I can't convince you to come to bed,” he says as he pushes up to his feet, “then I am staying up with you.”

“But if a mission comes up -”

“I've been on missions with less sleep than I have under my belt,” he assures you.

“You don't have to do this, Steve.” You turn and watch him cross the living room to the record player he keeps in pride of place against the far wall.

“We didn't have a lot when I was growing up,” he says as he flips through the collection of vinyls beside the player. “But we had one luxury left over from when my mom first married my dad.”

“I'm guessing it was a gramophone?” You turn on the couch to face him as he glances at you with a small smirk.

“Yes, but don't interrupt,” he says. “It's not polite.”

“Terribly sorry.” You bow your head slightly and motion for him to continue.

“My grandparents had pooled their money together to get my parents the gramophone right before the Depression hit, because my mother loved music. Any other time in history and she might have been able to make a living from it.”

You lean forward and cross your hands on the arm of the couch, then lean your head on them as you wait for him to continue.

“She played records for the patients in the TB ward when she worked the late shift,” he says. “A lot of them were soldiers from either of the big wars and she said the music calmed them, made it easier for them to sleep.” A smile creeps over your face as he sets a record on the player and settles the needle. Low piano notes float from the speakers and Steve turns back to you.

“She usually stayed up late when I was a kid, doing washing or mending for clients.” He crosses the room and takes your hands in his, then gently tugs you to your feet. “And if I had trouble sleeping, I would go out to the living room and ask her to play a record for me.”

“Didn't the neighbors mind?” You ask. Steve presses a kiss to your temple and you feel his lips curve in a small smile as one hand settles on the small of your back.

“Only if she played something lively,” he says. “Music was a treat back then. If it woke them up at all, they enjoyed hearing it.” He places one of your hands on his shoulder, then laces the fingers of your free hands together.

“That sounds lovely,” you say. A yawn slips out and you press your face into his chest to muffle the sound. Steve leans his head against yours and the two of you begin a slow, spinning circuit of the room.

“They were good nights,” he says. “I would sketch or help her with whatever she was doing. Sometimes we would dance.”

“Is that where you learned to dance?” You blink once and find that you have to remind yourself to open your eyes again as you rest against Steve's chest.

“For the most part,” he replies. “Buck made sure I could dance by the time we got to high school, though I didn't have much reason to.”

“Their loss,” you murmur quietly. Steve says nothing and you relax further into his arms.

“That gramophone is still around,” he says softly. “Buck's sister got it when they thought we'd both died in the war and her kids got it when she passed away.” You try to think of something to say, but your mind only buzzes softly as your eyes slip closed. Steve sways in place for a moment, then shifts his hold on you and lifts you into his arms.

“I think this record player works just as well,” he says and this time when you hear the smile in his voice you manage a small smile of your own. He pauses only long enough to turn off the record player, then carries you back to the bedroom, lays you in bed, and slips in beside you.


	2. Natasha Romanov/Black Widow

Your chest burns, straining with the force of a scream you manage to swallow before it tears from your throat. The blankets pool on your lap as you bolt up in bed, hands fisted in the sheet beneath you until your breathing begins to slow. Your eyes scan the darkened room, looking for any sign of intrusion. Everything is still.

“Another nightmare?” Natasha asks softly. You look down at her and nod slowly.

“They're getting worse,” you whisper back. She gently tugs on your arm and you slide back down and curl into her. “I used to just lose a little sleep, if that. Now they're waking me up and I... I don't know how to make them stop.”

“Talking about them might be a good place to start,” Natasha murmurs. She strokes your hair gently, fingers tracing against your temple.

“I do talk about them,” you reply.

“You reference them,” she says. “You mention what happens in them, but you don't talk about how they make you feel or anything like that.”

“Would that really make a difference?” Tears dampen your eyes and you blink quickly to keep them back. Natasha's fingers pause for a moment, then resume their gentle motions.

“It usually does,” she replies. “If you talk about what you see and how it makes you feel, you might be able to pinpoint why you're having the nightmares. From there you might be able to make them stop.”

You lay silent for a moment, then close your eyes. Her fingers make a steady rhythm across your scalp and you slowly sync your breath to their motion.

“Do you really think it's worth it?” You ask softly. “You never talk about yours.” Natasha doesn’t answer, though her fingers twitch in their motions. You try to look up at her but she tenses her hand on your temple just enough to keep you from moving as she maintains the strokes across your hair.

“I used to,” she finally says. “When I first started active work, before I'd fully given in to my training. I used to talk to one of the other Widows about my nightmares. But that sort of thing was a weakness and they eventually split us up. It was enough of a warning. I... I had to learn other means of coping.”

“Like what?” You wrap one arm around her waist to lend her comfort. It's never been easy for her to open up about her training.

“Internalizing it,” she says. “I would relive it over and over in my mind, sometimes repeating the fights with ghost partners. Once I had run through it enough times it began to feel like just another training exercise.”

“That doesn't sound too bad,” you reply.

“It's not, usually. But when I started questioning my orders, when I started to see the wrong in what I had been trained to do, the guilt was overwhelming. I found SHIELD not long after that and met Clint. He taught me to talk about it. It helped, and now I just remind myself that whatever I do is to save the people I care about.”

She falls quiet again and you press your ear to her chest to let the sounds of her heartbeat and her breathing fill the silence. Her fingers still against your hair and she presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

“Tomorrow, over coffee, will you finally talk to me?” She asks quietly. You think it over, then nod slowly. “Good,” she says. 

Her fingers resume their motions as she begins humming a steady, sweet song. She hums a few more bars, then begins to sing a soft lullaby paced to the movement of her fingers. You close your eyes and tap the rhythm against her thigh until your focus narrows to the feeling of Natasha's fingers against your skin and her voice in your ear. The sensations begin to blur as sleep rolls in over you and your tapping gradually slows until it stops altogether. Natasha's voice is the last thing you hear as you slip into a gentle, dreamless sleep.


	3. Bucky Barnes/ The Winter Soldier

**_CRASH_ **

You sit straight up in bed, heart hammering as you blink the haze of sleep from your eyes. Your fingers scrabble at your bedside table and the gun you keep there. The stock is barely settled in your grip when the hall light flicks on, striping the floor beneath the closed bedroom door.

“{YN}, are you okay?” Bucky's voice is thick with sleep. You sweep the room with the gun but nothing moves in dim light.

“Yeah,” you call back. Your eyes go to the dresser across from your bed and the blood drains from your face as you realize the vase you keep there – the antique vase Bucky had given you on your first anniversary – was gone.

“No.” The word comes out breathless as you throw the blankets off and scramble to your feet. A pillow lays on the floor in front of the dresser and you glance back at the bed. Neither pillow is in its usual place against the headboard. Yours lays on the floor at your feet and Bucky's... Bucky's had gone with him when he'd retreated to the living room earlier that evening. 

You step towards the pillow and pain, hot and abrupt, shoots through your foot.

“Ow, fuck!” You jump back and pain lances through your foot again when you set it down. Blood marks the wood floor when you lift your foot up and you grimace when you see the small pottery shard that has lodged, splinter-like, in your flesh. You had received wounds a thousand times worse on the battlefield, but this hits you harder than any of them. The tears well up before you can stop them and you sit down heavily on the trunk at the end of the bed.

“{YN},” Bucky yells again. “What's wrong? Are you hurt?” He pauses, and then his voice softens. “Are you crying? C'mon darlin', open the door.” You swallow a sob and push up to one foot. It's hard to sidestep the broken pottery when you're trying not to put pressure on the wound, but you manage. Your fingers hesitate over the door lock and you take a deep breath. Then you key the lock open and pull the door in.

“Don't go in there,” you mutter. “The vase broke.” You push past Bucky and hobble towards the bathroom. He takes a moment to peer around the door frame at the mess, then follows you to the bathroom.

“Did you step on a shard?” He asks as you sit down on the toilet lid. You nod and prop your injured foot on your knee. The bottom of your foot is a mess and you wet a wad of toilet paper to clean away the blood.

“Let me do that,” Bucky says. He reaches for the toilet paper but you pull it back. Hurt flashes across his face and guilt snakes through you.

“I know we're... we're having a rough time,” he says. “But I still want to take care of you. And of the two of us, I know more about first aid.”

He's right and you both know it. You hesitate a moment longer, then hand him the wad of paper. He glances at it, then throws it in the trash.

“That's just gonna make a mess,” he says. He pulls the first aid kit out from under the sink and lays it open on the floor. You close your eyes and lean your head back against the wall as he tends to your foot. He works silently for a moment, and then a sharp burning sensation blooms against your skin.

“Shit,” you hiss. You try to pull your foot back but he holds on tight.

“I just cleaned it with alcohol,” he says. “The burning will stop in a minute and then I'll bandage it.” You fight the urge to glare at him and lay your head back against the wall once more. His hands are strong and sure against your foot and for a moment you consider apologizing.

“All better,” he says. You look down and watch him pack the first aid kit back into its case, then slip it under the sink. “Do you need help cleaning the mess?” 

“No,” you say with a shake of your head. “One of Tony's robots is probably already don't cleaning the mess up.” 

Bucky looks away for a moment with an expression you recognize: guilt.

“What now?” Your voice is sharp and you feel the urge to apologize evaporate.

“I disabled the cleaning robots,” he mumbles.

“Why would you do that?” You pull your foot from his hand and stand. Pain aches from your sole to you ankle and you shift your weight. Bucky reaches a hand out to steady you but you pull away.

“This is exactly what I tried to talk to you about earlier,” you fume. “You just do things and don't bother asking me or even telling me about it!”

“They freak me out, {YN},” he says. “And we're more than capable of cleaning our place on our own.

“Not the point!” You push past him and out into the hall. “If you want them turned off then we’ll turn them off. But you didn't ask me. You just changed our apartment without talking to me.”

“I didn't think it would be a problem,” he says. He follows you into the hall, hands held out and expression bewildered.

“You never think it'll be a problem, but it always is!” You stomp your foot and wince, but you're too angry to let it derail you. “Just like you don't think it's a big deal when you go to clubs with Pietro while I'm in a meeting, or that you and Natasha still get cozy when the team is hanging out. Or that you...” you trail off and press the back of your hand to your mouth.

Your throat aches and your eyes are hot with tears. Bucky's hands drop to his side and his shoulders sag in something too close to defeat for comfort. 

“I try,” he says softly. “I try to remember, but this is... I've never... you're the first person to mean this much to me. I'm still learning.”

“How long, James?” You don't care that you're crying now. “I've been trying to get this through to you for a year. You go out, you cuddle up, and you join missions without caring how I'll feel.” The word “mission” sticks in your throat and understanding brings a slow light to Bucky's eyes.

“You're scared,” he says softly. He takes a small step towards you and you back away. 

“No shit I'm scared,” you say. “You're James Buchanan Barnes. Damn near everybody on this base wants to fuck you and every military leader wants to use you. I'm just... I'm just...”

“You're the one I love,” he says. He moves too fast for you to avoid and wraps his arms around you. “I'm not going to leave you.”

“Don't say that!” You push out of his arms and bump back against the frame of the bedroom door. “You can't make me that promise. You go out on all these missions and one day you're going to run out of lives and get a bullet to the brain.”

Your nightmare flashes through your mind and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“You could die too,” Bucky says. His voice is a shade harder and when he pulls you into his arms his body is tense. “We could all die tomorrow and there's nothing we can do to stop it. But as long as I am able, I will come home to you.”

“No,” you moan into his shoulder. “No you won't. You're going to go away.” He goes still for a moment, then his hands move in small circles against your back.

“You had the nightmare again, didn't you?” He presses his lips to the top of your head as you nod. “Is that what happened to the vase?”

“I don't know,” you mutter miserably. He squeezes you, then steps back enough to guide you into the bedroom.

“You only have that nightmare when I'm gone,” he says. He pushes you down to sit on the edge of the bed, holds up one finger, then slips from the room. He's back a moment later, pillow in one hand and book in the other. 

“I'm still mad at you,” you mutter darkly. He tosses his pillow down and pulls a spare from the closet to replace yours.

“I know,” he says. You shuffle backwards on the bed and he slides in beside you. You look at him for a moment, then curl into his side and press your face into his chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady and you close your eyes as you let the sound fill your head.

“Don't leave me,” you whisper.

“As long as I am able, I will come home to you.” He repeats the words slowly and his voice resonates against your ear. You hear the rustle of paper overhead and then Bucky takes a deep breath. He starts to read out loud and you can't help but smile. Reading to one another is a tradition dating back to your first night together. Everyone on the team had nightmares from time to time, it was unavoidable in your line of work. But when you read to Bucky, or he read to you, your minds focused on the voice and the words and the terror left you alone. 

“I love you,” you murmur.

Bucky pauses and strokes his hand over your hair.

“I love you too, {YN},” he says. You sigh softly, breath hitching with the after effects of your tears. Bucky clears his throat and resumes reading, his hand stroking your hair gently. You can feel the nightmare lurking at the back of your mind but you know you’re safe for now. So long as Bucky is beside you, everything will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the song Burning House by Cam


	4. Thor Odinson/ Thor

Most people don’t know that a three-tier railing runs around the top of Stark Tower. The silver railing usually reflected the sky around it so that it was almost invisible, even from the top floor of the nearest buildings. Even fewer people knew that if you slid your legs under the bottom tier, your chin could rest comfortably on the second tier. But you knew, just like you knew the fastest way to the roof short of flying. You knew where the kitchen staff kept the best snacks. And you knew how good it felt to sit on the roof and watch New York open itself up beneath your feet. Roads so small that they’re like tight ropes beneath your dangling feet and people so minuscule that their movements looks more like heat waves on the pavement below. The distance comforts you and you’ve taken to spending your free afternoons pressed against the railing. It’s one of the few places in the Tower you can be alone. At least, most of the time.

“I have been looking for you.” Thor drops onto the roof next to you, Mjolnir whistling to a stop at his side. 

“FRIDAY knew where I was.” You shrug and take a bite of the pastry you’ve been nursing for the last twenty minutes. 

“The AI was reluctant to reveal your location. She would say only that you were on the premises.”

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “I may have asked her to keep my exact location to herself.”

“Even from me?”

There’s a note of hurt in Thor’s voice and you glance up at him. The Asgardian is frowning down at you, his eyes equal parts hurt, angry, and relieved. 

“Not intentionally,” you reply. “I just need some time to... decompress.”

“I don’t understand.” Thor sits next you and drops Mjolnir on his other side. 

“Our lives aren’t normal.” You say with a shrug. “And I didn’t grow up expecting aliens and space princes and weekly battles. Sometimes I need some room to just process everything.”

“Space princes?” Thor asks, his brows rising almost to his hairline. 

“Mmhmm.” You nod as you finish the pastry. “One that’s good and one that’s kind of but maybe not really evil. Just like the storybooks.”

“You read interesting storybooks as a child.” Thor moves closer and slips his arm around your shoulders. You may have come up to the roof to be alone but you’ve never been able to turn down the comfort of his embrace. 

“Would it be weird to say that I spent most of my childhood reading stories about you? I mean, the Viking version of you?”

Thor rests his cheek on your head, his gaze moving out over the city as he chuckles.

“Maybe a little,” he admits. You bump your shoulder into his chest as a gentle reprimand but Thor only booms outs a laugh. You can’t stop the way the sound draws out your smile. His laughter echoes out over the streets and you close your eyes as your body leans more fully against his. Silence follows after his laughter fades, or at least what passes for silence in New York City. Thor’s hand idly begins to stroke your shoulder and you send up a silent prayer of thanks that he had come looking for you. 

“So you’ve been up here thinking.” Thor says. You nod, turning your head to press a quick kiss to his shoulder. “What have you been thinking about?” 

“The same things we all think about, I guess. If the job is worth it, if I can really save everyone that will need me to save them. If I actually belong here.”

You feel Thor’s arm tighten around you for a brief moment before his hand resumes its caresses. 

“And have you come to any decisions?” He asks. You shrug, offering him one of the pastries you still have. He takes it eagerly, his small “ooh” of pleasure cutting the tension you’d felt building in the air.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” You ask. “There might come a time when I have to walk away from all this but right now I can keep going.”

“Where would you go?” Thor asks. His tone is gentle and try as you might, you can’t find any sense of rebuke in his tone. You’ve always thought that he’d fight your decision if you chose to leave the team. He was, after all, a warrior prince.

“I haven’t gotten that far,” you admit. “I figure I’ll plan all that when I reach my breaking point.”

Thor nods, but his fingers have settled into a looping pattern on your shoulder. It’s enough to tell you how deep in thought he is.

“Your turn.” You jostle him with your shoulder once more. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing, nothing!” He answers brightly. Too brightly.

“No way.” You lift your head and turn to face him, careful of the roof’s edge. “I spilled to you, now you’ve got to spill to me.”

You catch Thor’s eye and hold his gaze until he kisses the top of your head and nods. 

“I will tell you. Just, please... blink. You always worry me when you stop blinking.” 

You can’t help but laugh, blinking quickly. It was lucky Thor had broken so fast. The wind on the roof really did a number on your eyes if you weren’t careful. 

“All of us will have to take a step back from the fight now and then,” Thor says. “It is either that or lose ourselves.”

“Well that’s depressing,” you grumble. Thor’s lips press into a thin line and you motion for him to continue, silencing yourself with a sip from a thermos you’d stashed next to the pastries. 

“When the time comes that you have to step away, I want you to let me come with you.”

Thor sucks in a deep breath and holds your startled gaze. He catches your chin with one hand and brushes a thumb across your lips.

“Thor, I... are you...” Your words fade out. Is there a word for what he’s trying to do? It doesn’t sound like a proposal, but then again you’re not quite clear on Asgardian courtship rituals.

“I love you {YN}. That is one of the few things that has remained constant in my life for some time now. And I want to continue loving you, whether here or in Asgard or anywhere in the universe you will go.” He turns more fully to face you, his hair swinging forward over his shoulders to tickle your cheeks. “Will you stay by my side? Peace or war, Earth or anywhere else?”

Your jaw drops, then closes. Opens and closes once more. Finally, when it’s clear you can’t string together the words, you just nod. Emphatically, joyfully. A smile lights up Thor’s eyes and you swear you hear thunder break like applause in the distance. Thor gathers you into his arms, pastries and thermos and even Mjolnir forgotten for a brief moment as he holds you to him. One of you is crying, maybe both of you, but your head is spinning too fast to tell. You might not be clear on Asgardian courtship rituals, but you’re absolutely clear on the direction your life has just taken. It is one that you, in all your days on the roof, have never considered. It thrills you, shivers running down your spine. But each shiver adds to the bloom of elation growing in your mind. War or peace, Earth or anywhere else, Thor would be by your side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the song "Marry Me" by Train


	5. Wanda Maximoff/ Scarlet Witch

You sprawl over your bed, eyes fixed on the concrete ceiling above. Images from your last battle still play through your mind, but you’re not going over tactics. Every fear-filled face seems burned into the ceiling above you. Every civilian wounded by falling debris, every scream when someone realized a loved one had been too close to the fight. You roll over and bury your face in the pillow, eyes squeezed shut tight against the images. It doesn’t help. Your hand gropes in the darkness for the TV remote on your bedside table, then stops. Music, almost too faint to hear, is slipping in through your closed door. You strain to hear and realize that it’s not someone’s stereo. It’s live. That means someone else is up, and only one person on the team plays an instrument.

The urge to see Wanda is overwhelming. You don’t even bother with the lights as you snag your pants off the floor beside your bed and slip them on. The residential portion of the base is empty at this time of night, save the team members that aren’t out on a mission. You still glance around to make sure nobody sees you slipping through the halls, unsure if Wanda would want rumors circulating about late-night visits.

“You’re up late.” Wanda’s voice carries out into the hall through her open door. For a moment you worry she already has company, then you feel her mind brush against yours

“Can’t seem to get any sleep right now,” you reply. You stop just outside her door and lean on the doorframe.

Perched on the end of her bed, Wanda’s back is to you as she continues to read the music on the stand before her. A guitar sits across her lap, the strap falling loose across the back of her shoulders.

“That makes two of us,” she answers after a moment. “Why don’t you come in and keep me company?”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” you grumble. You sit down at the head of her bed and pull your knees up to your chest. She turns to look at you, then shifts so you can see her hands as she plays. For a moment she looks strangely vulnerable without the swirls of red that normally dance across her fingers and spark through her hair. 

“I learned a new song,” Wanda says. The comment catches you off guard at first and you stare at her. She gives you a moment, then smiles. “Do you want to hear it?” She coaxes.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely!” You nod and smile, trying to make up for your slow reaction. Wanda snorts a small laugh and you feel your smile soften into something more genuine. Just being close to her makes the screams in your mind go away and you absently wonder if it has more to do with her mutation or with the butterflies she sets to dancing in your chest.

Wanda begins the song and for a moment you can’t place the tune. After a few seconds, though, a smile spreads across your face. She had learned how to play your favorite song. Neither of you speaks as she moves through the music, eyes closed and head tilted to one side. Your focus shifts between the song and the way she looks hunched slightly over her guitar. It’s only when the song ends and she opens her eyes that you speak.

“That was amazing,” you say. Wanda blushes and looks away as she smiles.

“I’m glad you liked it.” She rises from the end of the bed and shrugs out of the guitar strap before setting it on a stand by her TV. SIlence slips into the room, infinitely more preferable to the chaos your mind had been in before coming to Wanda.

“So why can’t you sleep?” Wanda asks as she drops onto the end of her bed. You shake your head. The peace she’d bought with her music is slowly beginning to crumble and you can’t stop the ache that builds in your chest. You blink a few times but Wanda doesn’t need to see the tears to feel your sadness.

“Oh no,” Wanda murmurs. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” She crawls up the bed to sit beside you, her arms slipping around your shoulders.

“S’okay,” you mumble. You tell yourself that you’re okay and don’t need the comfort, but you turn your face into her shoulder all the same.

“It’s hard for me too.” Wanda pulls you closer with the admission and you slip your arms around her waist. 

For a long while neither of you speaks. You focus on the sound of her heart beating so close to your ear and, for a few brief moments, you feel yourself relax. Wanda rests her cheek on the top of your head and begins to hum a sweet melody. It slowly eases the ache in your chest and you take a shaky breath as you try to push away the guilt. Your heart skips a beat when she shifts closer to you and stops humming.

“{YN}.” She murmurs your name and for a moment your throat feels too tight to speak. So you just let out a soft “hm” in answer. Wanda doesn’t say anything else and you look up at her, worried she felt the stutter in your heartbeat. 

You find her looking down at you, a hesitant smile on her face. 

“Did you just... I mean, did your - uh - heart...” She stumbles over her words as pink stains her cheeks.

“It.. yeah, it did.” You say softly. Neither of you looks away for another heartbeat. Then Wanda nods.

“I thought so,” she said. Another heartbeat of silence follows, and then she lays a kiss on your forehead. Her lips are warm and a gentle tingle seems to roll out from the spot where she kissed you, even after she sits back.

“Mine did it too,” she says softly. You rest your head on her shoulder again, a smile tugging at your lips. The guilt still sits heavy in your mind, but with Wanda at your side and her heart skipping beats just for you, it all seems a little more bearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the song "Is There Somewhere" by HALSEY


	6. Sam Wilson/Falcon

“Just once,” you mutter, “just once I want a workout to wear me out enough that I can actually sleep.” You push off from the wall of the elevator when the doors open on your floor. Your limbs ache and you're so focused on your irritation that you don’t notice the smell of vanilla and warm sugar until you’re standing outside your apartment door.

“Damn it.” You sigh and throw your towel around your neck, then key open your door.

“I woke up and you were gone.” Sam's back is to you as he operates the stand mixer.

“I couldn't sleep,” you say as you drop onto a stool at the kitchen counter. “I didn't want to ruin your sleep too.”

“So you just took off?” He still hasn't looked up from the mixer and you bite off another sigh.

“I just went to the gym,” you say. “I would've let you know if I'd left the tower.”

Sam finally looks up at you and you can see the worry lines between his eyes despite his obvious effort not to frown. The neutral set to his lips is almost worse, somehow.

“I'm worried about you,” he says. The kitchen falls suddenly silent as he shuts off the mixer and turns around to lean against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “This is the fourth night in a row you haven't slept. Yesterday you nodded off waiting for your turn on the training floor. If we get called on a mission -”

“I'll use some stim shots and make it through just fine,” you cut him off. Sam's frown finally breaks free as he shakes his head.

“If you take too many of those, you're going to get distracted and wind up hurt... or dead. You need to get some sleep, real sleep.”

“I'm trying,” you mutter. Sam uncrosses his arms as you slide off the stool and come around the counter to press in against his chest. “I'm going to ask Wanda to poke around in my head tomorrow. She knows how to create a nightmare, maybe she can figure out how to get rid of one too.”

“It's not a bad idea.” Sam’s arms close around you, one hand stroking your back as his lips rest gently against the top of your head.

“I’m so tired,” you murmur.

“I know, I know.” He kisses the top of your head once more, then leans back until you look up at him. “Why don't you help me finish up these cookies and then we'll see if you feel like getting some sleep?”

“How many are you making?” You glance to one side and note the four full racks of cooling cookies and the four empty racks beside them. Sam shrugs and pushes off from the counter. You step back and let him retrieve the dough from the stand mixer, then join him at an empty bit of counter.

“I've mixed up two batches,” he says as he scrapes the dough out of the bowl and onto a piece of wax paper. “How many we make depends on how tired you get.”

“Well then, I’ll wash my hands and we can get started.” You smile at him, sneak a kiss to his cheek, then go to the sink. It's half-full of dirty dishes and you load them into the dishwasher before washing your hands and returning to Sam's side. He's already separated the dough in half, his hands gleaming with oil from the dough as he tears off small portions and rolls them between his palms. You pull a handful of dough from your pile and copy him, forming the uneven lump into a smooth ball. It's bigger than the ones Sam is making and you work for a moment to resize it.

You repeat the process again and again until your hands are slick with oil and your skin smells like vanilla extract.

“Feeling sleepy yet?” Sam nudges you with his shoulder and turns to wash his hands. You take stock of your energy levels, then shake your head.

“No, not yet,” you finally answer. You form the last ball and place it on a cookie sheet, then replace Sam at the sink. A draft of warm air brushes the back of your legs as he opens the oven. Trays rattle as he slips some of the cookie sheets inside and closes the door.

“Well, we've got eight minutes,” he says. You feel his hands on your shoulders and finishing drying your hands before leaning back against his chest.. Your eyes close as you rest your head on his shoulder and for a moment you consider changing your answer. Sam digs in his pocket and low music fills the room a second later. It's not a song you know but the words are sweet and the melody is slow, somehow a perfect match for the scent of cookie dough.

He begins to rock you slowly, then turns you around and pulls you into his arms.

“Is this a musical timer?” You ask and Sam chuckles, bringing a smile to your lips.

“Something like that,” he says. The two of you dance out of the kitchen and begin to make a slow circuit of your living room, his arms are strong around you and his chest warm against your cheek. You feel your shoulders start to relax for the first time in days, tension melting away as the baking dough makes the air heavy with the smell of home. 

It isn't until you wake up the next morning that you realize you'd fallen asleep before the first batch of cookies was done. Sam snores softly beside you and you snuggle against him until he rolls onto his side to curl around you. He still smells like vanilla and sugar. Like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the song "Wanted" by Hunter Hayes


End file.
